


two wrongs, twice removed

by ghostsoldier



Category: There Will Be Blood
Genre: Alcohol, Blasphemy, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, M/M, POV Second Person, Physical Abuse, Rough Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:52:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostsoldier/pseuds/ghostsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here there be monsters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	two wrongs, twice removed

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted in 2008.
> 
> Warnings: please, PLEASE see the tags. Daniel is not a nice person and this is not a nice story.

The wedding is a beautiful one. HW and Mary can’t seem to stop smiling, dancing little whispered messages to each other with their hands during those rare moments when they’re apart, and it pleases you to think that the Lord allowed them to find happiness in each other. Even Daniel behaves himself. His toast is short but seemingly heartfelt, and with a tight smile -- the closest to genuine you’ve seen from him in a long time -- he wishes the pair long life and great happiness, which seems to surprise them as much as it does everyone else. It’s not until later, when you pull him aside to congratulate him on his son and your sister’s good fortune, that you realize he’s been drunk the whole time.

“I expect the honeymoon will be interesting,” he says. His eyes are half-lidded with drink, his expression one of savage, bored amusement. “All of their…hand-flapping. Once the lights go out, I expect they won’t have the faintest idea what to do.”

“Please, Daniel.” Deeply uncomfortable, you grab his arm and try to steer him away from the little knots of conversation so that no one else will hear. “He’s your _son_.”

“And she’s your sister.” His gaze swivels sideways, and for a moment you’re sixteen again, trapped in the malice of his stare like an injured bird hypnotized by a serpent. Then it passes, and you’re grateful. You’re a vessel of God, a chosen one. He’s nothing but an angry, bitter old man, a drunk, and while he may be powerful in his own way, he’s nothing for you to fear anymore.

Emboldened, you ask if you might speak to him somewhere privately. He’s not amused.

“I don’t think my son’s wedding is an appropriate place to pick my pockets, Eli.”

“It’s not about the money,” you tell him. It may be, later, but for the moment you just want to get him away from everyone else, before HW can see him or, worse, Mary has a chance to hear him. “Is there somewhere quiet we can go?”

“It’s not my house, you stupid boy, it’s a church. You’d know better than I would.”

Flattening your lips, you guide him through several doors until he shakes you off. The next door you come to appears to lead into a small office, much like your own, with hardwood floors and dark wallpaper, a big desk centered in front of the far wall. The only light comes in the form of moonlight filtering through the window, and you leave it that way; it makes you uneasy to think of someone seeing the electric lights under the door and coming to see.

“Well, go ahead,” Daniel says. “You wanted to talk? Talk. I’ll give you five minutes of my time and nothing more, as -- in case you’re unaware -- we’re at a _wedding_. Normally, people celebrate these things.” He sounds as if celebration is the last thing on his mind.

“That’s part of what I wanted to speak to you about,” you say. “This…enmity between us--“

“ _Enmity_ ,” Daniel says. He draws a small silver flask from his vest and unscrews it, takes a thoughtful pull before he tucks it away again. “Quite the word for a dirt-poor preacher from Little Boston. Congratulations, Eli, you can read the dictionary.”

You’re beginning to remember why conversing with him was always so difficult. “This enmity between us,” you say, more loudly this time. “I fear what it might do to poor Mary and HW, to their happiness. If you and I cannot put our past differences behind us…”

Daniel’s eyes had narrowed at the mention of his son, but now his expression is dangerously dark. “And this is where you ask me for money, is it? Using the imagined happiness of _children_ to cheat me out of what’s rightfully mine?”

“Daniel, please.” You’re not sure if you’re feeling more worried or exasperated. He’s cruel enough as it is, but you have enough experience with him to know that alcohol makes him unpredictable. “We’re _family_ now--"

The slap takes you by surprise, and although you don’t fall, the blow is hard enough to send you stumbling sideways. You catch yourself against the wall and touch your mouth, almost certain that your fingers are going to come back red. They don’t, but then he hits you again and now your head is ringing. You remember mud, his hands in your hair, his contempt. Filth, he’d _dragged_ you in it, and yet your soul had blazed so clean after, something strangely revitalizing about his hatred. He ignores most people, but you…you, he _loathes_. You remember that now. It’s probably a sin to find such strange joy in his hatred.

This time, you taste blood when he hits you. His hands are as hard as wood, and when they go to your belt it takes you a moment to realize what’s happening. By the time you do catch on, your pants are down around your thighs and your face is against the wall, the breath on the back of your neck hot and sour with whiskey. Oddly, it never occurs to you to struggle.

“So we’re family now, Eli, is that what you think? _Family_?”

The sound of a zipper, the angry rustle of fabric. His fingers dig hard into your hip, and dreamily you think that he must be very drunk indeed to even think about touching you. Ordinarily, all you seem to inspire in him is disgust. 

You wait for the pain -- as you’re sure there’s going to be, for although you’ve no practical experience in something of this nature, you’ve heard the stories from certain weepy young men of your congregation -- but it doesn’t come. All you hear is a wet, fleshy sound, and Daniel cursing under his breath.

The answer, when it occurs to you, makes you smile against the dark wallpaper.

“Difficulties, Brother Daniel?” Your voice is soft. “They say too much alcohol can do that to a man.”

It’s a momentary victory, and it seems foolish when he spins you around and slams you against the wall hard enough to knock the breath from your body. His nostrils are flared, his eyes dark; in the dim light, the flash of his teeth is supremely disconcerting.

“That’s what ‘they’ say, do they? And who is this ‘they’, exactly?”

“People,” you whisper. “Sinners.” You can’t help but smile. “Like you.”

His voice is rough, and his hands are on your shoulders, as hard and inexorable as gravity. “That’s right, Eli,” he says. “Sinners like me. And what is it you do for sinners, hm? In this…precious church of yours. What is it you do for sinners?”

He shouldn’t be this strong. He’s _drunk_. You’re taller, but he’s stronger, and the sound of your knees striking the hardwood floor is obscenely loud in the otherwise deathly quiet of the room. All you hear is the blood rushing in your ears and the raggedness of his breath, the horrible satisfaction in his voice when he says, “Come on, Eli, I know you know this one. What do you do for sinners?”

“We…” Your voice emerges as a croak, and you swallow hard. “We pray.”

“That’s _right_. You pray.” When you glance up, he bares his teeth in a rictus too ghastly to be called a smile. Something that’s not quite fear and not quite disgust twists in your stomach, and you feel yourself twitch. It’s not the first time you’ve done this, but the circumstances were different then -- then, it was for the Church, always for the Church, lonely and desperate sinners whose appetites led them astray. Tried to lead you astray. But you always led them back, drove their demons out. Your own too, God willing, but it’s always been for the Church, the _Church_ …

This should be too, but it’s not. You both know this.

“You want to pray for me, Eli?” Daniel rasps. He digs his fingers into your jaw, forcing you to look up. Hatred gleams in his eyes. “Open your mouth, then. Open your mouth, Eli, and _pray_.” 

He tastes bitter, heavy on your tongue, one hand clamped on the back of your neck and the other tangled in your hair. You wonder, briefly, how you’re going to explain the state of your hair and the bruises once you leave this room, but then his fingers tighten and you can’t help but make a small noise of pain. There’s anger in the way he pushes against you, like it’s your fault his flesh betrays him. 

Once, you thought you’d broken him. When you made him take the baptism, when you had him on his knees on the floor of your church, shaking with fury under your hands as he bellowed that he’d abandoned his son. You were sure, you were so _sure_. You’d broken him, _you_ , you’d broken Daniel Plainview. There was near-ecstasy in that, in the sheer hatred radiating from him as you dragged him kicking and struggling into God’s light. Sometimes, you abused yourself thinking on it, the way he’d roared, the way he’d fought before he finally submitted, _yes_ , submitted to _you_ , but in the end he was a liar and a sinner and he’d never submitted at all.

Suddenly, you’re angry. Shame aching between your legs, the taste of him bitter in your mouth. You’re not sure what exactly compels you to use your teeth, but what you expect in response is anger. What you don’t expect are his fingers tightening in your hair, his sudden, startled grunt. You don’t expect his hips to jerk forward.

Teeth. How oddly fitting.

He hisses when you do it again, and he’s stiffening in your mouth, the taste of him suddenly sharper and more heady. The sweat of his palm against your skin, the aborted movement of his hips; suddenly, you’re the one with the power here, and what’s more, he knows it. You glance up and see that his eyes are narrowed, and he obviously doesn’t like whatever it is he sees in your expression because his hands tangle in your shirt and he drags you upright, shoves you against the wall much harder than necessary. 

Before, he’d been happy to taunt you; now, it’s as though the awakening of his flesh has angered him just as much as its refusal before, and he doesn’t say a word. Just holds your hips steady and breaches you without warning, and it hurts, Almighty Mother of God, it _hurts_ , and you can only be thankful that he has the foresight to clamp a hand over your mouth so that no one can hear your cry of pain and come running to investigate.

Whatever you’d expected before, whatever the strange and shameful pleasure of having him under control earlier, all of it pales in comparison with the pain now. He draws back and then slams into you again, and even muffled by his hand, the sound you make is still too close to a sob for comfort. You press your forehead against the wall and try to pull away, but all he does is follow. In desperation, you bite at his hand, and he curses and yanks it away, swats you upside the head before you have a chance to fight him more than that.

“Watch those teeth, boy,” he growls.

Your own body is betraying you. You’re aroused even through the pain, weak spirit, willing flesh. Your laugh is an ugly, ragged thing. “You…didn’t seem to mind before.” 

Daniel utters a low, inarticulate sound of rage and slams into you again, and your laugh turns into a broken moan. You move as if to reach down and stroke yourself, but he wrenches your arm up and behind your back, gritting, “This isn’t for _you_ , you idiotic boy.”

You refuse to give him the satisfaction of begging.

It’s hard and fast and rough, it hurts, it’s unspeakably, appallingly good. The way he has you trapped, your only relief is to rub yourself awkwardly against the wall, and it’s not enough, oh God, it’s not enough. Rough wallpaper, the softness of your own stomach; he has you flush against the wall, and you know that in the morning you’ll find bruises on your hips in the shape of his hands.

“Daniel…”

“Be quiet.”

“Daniel -- nghh -- _wait_ …”

“Damn you, be _quiet_.”

But he’s moving faster now, more jagged, sweat slick between your bodies, his breath hot on the back of your neck. The fabric of the wallpaper feels cool against your fevered cheek, and you twist your hips just to feel his fingers clench and force you still again. You’re not supposed to enjoy it -- it’s not a sin if you don’t enjoy it -- but you’re dirty enough at his hands now that the only way to get clean again is to finish it. To break him, the way he’s broken you.

Into the wall, you whisper, “I hate you.”

Daniel shudders, and his hips jerk so hard you almost lose your balance. You say it again, and again, and if you thought he was fucking you hard before, it’s nothing compared to the punishment now. You can feel the stirrings of orgasm at the base of your spine, clawing at you with hot, inevitable fingers. You snap at his fingers when he covers your mouth again, and he retaliates by biting you on the back of the neck. Like a _dog_. Shivering, you clench your eyes shut, and a moment later it’s over. You feel raw and strangely hollow, like you lost something of yourself when you spent.

Daniel finishes in one, two, three more crashing strokes, and pulls out of you not half a moment later. His eyes are flat and his mouth is twisted with disgust, although whether at you or himself, you don’t know.

“Clean yourself up,” he says. He only spares you the fastest of glances before he turns away again and tucks himself into his pants. “You look like a whore.”

With shaking hands, you do up your trousers and try to return your clothes to some semblance of order. The reality of where you are, of what you’ve done, has begun to press in on you, and as you attempt to smooth the wrinkles from your shirt, you say, “I…had hoped we could use this opportunity to discuss some of our outstanding business.”

It takes you a moment to realize that the ugly, rasping sound he’s making is actually a laugh.

“You’re going to ask me for _money_?” he says. “Here? _Now_?”

“It’s only five thousand dollars, Daniel, and I’d thought that with our new relationship--“

He cocks his head at that and, aghast, you realize that he thinks you mean _this_ , the shameful things he’s done to you, the shameful things you’ve let him do.

“The marriage between our two families,” you say hurriedly. “The repayment of your old debt would--“

“Would what, hmm? Engender the blossoming of love and friendship between the Plainviews and the Sundays?” There’s nothing but scorn in his voice, and even as he says it, you realize how stupid an idea it is. Still, you persist. You _must_.

“The bonds of family,” you say.

His eyes go hard. “You fool. We’re not family. Don’t ever forget that.”

He turns to leave, and you hear yourself shrill, “But what would HW think?” Daniel stops, turns. His expression is unreadable.

“Are you trying to _blackmail_ me, Eli?”

“I…I don’t…”

Compared to the blows earlier, the slap this time is almost gentle, although it’s hard enough that copper and salt flood over your tongue almost immediately.

“A child of _God_ ,” Daniel says. He shakes his head with dry amusement. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Listen to me, Eli. Are you listening?”

You touch your fingers to your mouth and they come back wet. You know you won’t be returning to the reception. Daniel asks again if you’re listening, and you finally nod.

“Good,” he says. “Good. Your little threats will get you nowhere, Eli, surely you know that. Better men than you have tried. Better _men_. Come talk to me when you’re a man, Eli, and then maybe you’ll get your money.” His smile is flat and humorless. “If I feel you really deserve it.”

Your stomach feels as though it’s made of lead. It was for nothing, all of this, all for nothing. He’ll never break, and you’ll never see your money. He’s a monster.

He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, as if he can hear your thoughts. “Eli?”

“Yes, Broth-- yes, Daniel?”

Standing where he is, he’s half in shadow, only the faint gleam of his eyes and teeth giving him away in the darkness. “If I ever see you near HW, Eli, I’ll slit your throat. Make no mistake about that. I’ll slit your throat, and no one will ever find you.”

And with that, he’s gone.

You decide against returning to the wedding.


End file.
